


the soft stars that shine at night

by seraphina_snape



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Angst, M/M, Remix, kind of h/c without the c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphina_snape/pseuds/seraphina_snape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Derek swears he can feel that Stiles is still hanging around. It's just the ghost of a touch, like the brush of Stiles' hand against his back, Stiles' fingers in his hair, but for a split-second Derek swears it feels <i>real</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the soft stars that shine at night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venis_envy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bleeding Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/999238) by [venis_envy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/pseuds/venis_envy). 



> My first time remixing a story! 
> 
> Title from the poem Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye. 
> 
> Thanks to Mizzy for the beta! ♥

_I am the soft stars that shine at night._  
 _Do not stand at my grave and cry,_  
 _I am not there; I did not die._  
\-- Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep, Mary Elizabeth Frye

 

Sometimes Derek swears he can feel that Stiles is still hanging around. It's just the ghost of a touch, like the brush of Stiles' hand against his back, Stiles' fingers in his hair, but for a split-second Derek swears it feels _real_. 

He curls up on Stiles' bed, his face pushed into Stiles' pillow. Over time, Derek knows, Stiles' scent will fade from the room, from the clothes in the closet and the down feathers in his pillow. But for now the scent is still strong, still enough to ground him. 

He rubs his cheek over the pillow and closes his eyes, pretends that he can feel the mattress dip down behind him. Stiles' instinct when faced with stray werewolves - all right, one stray werewolf - in his bed had been to curl up around him, his head resting between Derek's shoulder blades. Sometimes, on the days Derek had felt like reaching out, Stiles had clasped Derek's hand in his, fingers intertwining and holding fast. Now Derek clenches his hand in the stale-smelling comforter and everything feels wrong. It feels cold and unwelcoming and Derek wishes he'd saved up some of the tears he'd cried ten years ago. But even though his throat locks up and his eyes burn red, he can't let go, can't give up control. Not even to grieve. 

Derek stays until the room falls into darkness. If he listens carefully enough, he can hear the clacking of the keyboard as Stiles does his homework. He can smell the traces of Scott and Lydia and Allison on Stiles' clothes and he can feel - without having to look or hear - when Stiles pushes back from the desk to join him on the bed. 

When Derek opens his eyes, the room is cold and dark and empty and two rooms down the sheriff is restlessly turning in his bed. 

He trails his hand over the back of the desk chair on his way out, wondering if he'll be strong enough to stay away from now on.

#

It was Scott who called him.

"Something is wrong," he said, and Derek briefly closed his eyes. Things had a tendency to go wrong these days. Not that anything had gone right for him even before he became the alpha. But Isaac was spending more time with Scott than his own pack. His uncle was on top of the very long list of people Derek didn't - couldn't - trust, but he couldn't seem to shake him. Cora was more like a stranger to him than a sister. Boyd was in agony over Erica's death. A pack of alphas were threatening his town. The only brightness in his life was Stiles, and even that was tangled up in guilt and possible heartbreak because Stiles was _seventeen_. Derek remembered being seventeen. He remembered that feeling of believing that you knew everything and - more importantly - that you knew _better_ than the adults around you who only had decades of experience and maturity on you. Things that hardly counted when you were seventeen and in love. 

"What is it this time?" 

"Lydia called. Something's wrong." 

"Where is she?"

"She was on her way to the library and ended up on the edge of the woods," Scott said. "Near that old playground." 

Derek froze. Stiles liked to go running there. The playground was long out of commission, but its presence had once upon a time inspired the city to put several hiking paths into the woods in that area. They looped back around to the playground, giving Stiles a convenient place to park his jeep. Since the alpha pack had appeared, Stiles hadn't gone running on his own though. 

"What is it, Derek? Your heart is racing." 

"Stiles likes to go running in the area," he said. 

"Well, we're likely to find another body, so tell him he's not allowed anymore," Scott said. "Lydia is waiting in her car - I guess she really meant it when she said she wasn't going to be the one finding the bodies anymore. I'll meet you guys at car park." 

"Scott, Stiles isn't here." 

"Lydia said she'd tried his cell phone but didn't get an answer. And he's not at home either. I was nearby, so I stopped by. I figured he was with you - it's the only time he doesn't answer his phone."

An uneasy shiver ran over Derek's spine, but he shook it off. "Try his cell again. I'll head out to Lydia." 

"Derek, you don't think--"

"I don't think anything," Derek said. He hit the 'end call' button and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Instead of calming down, his heart had ticked up a notch, beating against his chest. Derek rolled his shoulders, twisting his neck to the side. Something popped and cracked in his spine and Derek watched the world fall into sharper focus. 

He ran the entire way into the woods. And blamed his rabbiting heart on the exertion.

#

Traces of Stiles' scent still linger in the loft, but they're too stale, too mixed with others, to give Derek any comfort. They're just signs that Stiles is missing from his life, his presence slowly fading.

Derek hasn't slept in his own bed since it happened. The nights he doesn't spent curled up on Stiles' bed, Derek stands guard over Beacon Hills. He patrols the forest, checks in on the pack. 

Scott is always his second-to-last stop. Half the time, Scott is sleeping when he gets there. The other half… well, Derek isn't the only werewolf who's missing part of his soul. On the nights Scott is awake, pacing or working out or staring blankly into space when Derek stops by, he joins Derek outside, standing shoulder to shoulder and looking out into the night. 

More often than not they're silent. There isn't much to say. They're still not seeing eye to eye on a lot of things, but Stiles has always been something they could agree on. He still is, maybe now more than ever. 

Derek's last stop on his nightly rounds is always the Stilinski house. Strangely enough, Derek is more likely to end up inside if the sheriff is home. The small movements and sounds of him in the house almost make it feel like Stiles is home. The sheriff's heartbeat is less erratic than Stiles', but it's close enough. The sheriff's scent is close to Stiles', the familial connection giving them a shared scent base. It's easy for Derek to fool his senses, if only for a little while. To pretend that Stiles is just down the hall in the bathroom. Or downstairs, getting a snack from the kitchen. 

(Derek pretends he doesn't notice all the ways the sheriff's presence is utterly unique, gun oil and Old Spice and creaking knees and heavy, mournful sighs.)

#

Lydia was crying when he got there, silent tears streaming down her face.

"What is it, Lydia?"

Lydia shook her head, her eyes unnaturally bright and wet.

Derek took a deep breath, forcing his face to shift back to human. He caught the faint trace of blood in the air, coming from the direction of the woods. His upper fangs pierced his lower lip before he was even aware that he'd lost control over the shift. The scent of blood from the woods was combined with something familiar that made dread pool in his stomach. 

Derek swallowed, running his tongue over his healed lip. "Lydia?"

Lydia bit her lip, sharply enough that tiny droplets of blood welled up under her teeth. 

Derek bared his fangs, turning his head away from Lydia until he had re-gained some semblance of control. It wasn't easy with the taste of blood heavy in the air. 

Lydia shook her head. "I can't look," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I-I feel like--" 

"Like what?" 

"Like I'm drowning." 

Derek touched her shoulder, a quick and fleeting gesture. He wasn't sure if he was trying to comfort her or himself.

Lydia avoided his eyes, a new deluge of tears leaving fresh tracks on her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she whispered again.

Derek looked towards the edge of the dark woods. He knew what he'd find. Lydia knew it, too. Neither of them wanted to admit it.

#

The sheriff knows he comes to Stiles' room sometimes. Once or twice he lingers in the doorway, blinking down at Derek's curled up figure. Derek hears the sheriff's heart skip a beat when he catches sight of Derek on Stiles' bed. He hates himself for doing this to the sheriff, giving him that split second of hope even though they both know that what they're hoping for won't happen.

Derek isn't sure how much the sheriff knows, but he isn't stupid. Stiles' cell phone has a picture of Stiles and Derek as the background image. Isaac had taken it one afternoon. The picture itself is innocent enough. He and Stiles, asleep on Derek's couch, slumped against each other. But their hands are laced together and resting on Stiles' thigh, and Derek's face is half-hidden in Stiles' hair. The picture is innocent, but it's far from platonic. 

They don't talk about it. Either the sheriff's own grief keeps him from forbidding Derek to come or it's Derek's hollow-eyed look and the way he can't get through a week without sneaking into Stiles' room to sleep for a few hours. The sheriff lets it continue without comment, and Derek isn't sure he's glad about it. Maybe if Sheriff Stilinski pulls a gun on him one day and tells him to stay the hell away from his house, Derek will be able to stop. 

But for now he can't.


End file.
